


Darling Made of Splintered Bone

by feveredsweetness



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #HeIsTheDevil, After the Fall, Asexuality, Biting, Blood, Cannibalism, Cruelty, Demisexual Will Graham, Demon!Will, Hannibal Lecter - Freeform, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Mild Gore, Mischief Night, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-TWOTL, Sexual Intimacy, Sexual Tension, Snark, Torture, Will Graham - Freeform, dark hannigram, dark!Will, devil's night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 08:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8364646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feveredsweetness/pseuds/feveredsweetness
Summary: Devil's Night becomes a little too literal for Hannibal Lecter.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm having a ball writing this. I have a gut feeling that there'll be another chapter, and perhaps this may even evolve into a series. 
> 
> This is for Hannigram Acethetic's #HeIsTheDevil event. Please give us a follow over on @aceofhannigram & hannigramacethetic.tumblr.com. Join in on the fun now or the next event, and show us some love. Spread the word! <3

“It’s a final sale and everything must go,” Will croons with a wicked grin spread across his face; his eyes darkly aglow, coveting some delicious sliver of information. He twirls the bat deftly in his hand as his fingers intimately grip the base in eager anticipation. 

Hannibal strains against the coarse ropes, causing them to dig and roughly pull against his reddened, raw skin. 

A boom of malicious laughter echoes throughout their autumn retreat. The cabin walls appear to crowd in on the two men, the shadowed ceiling feeling less vaulted as it looms above them in what Hannibal considers to be intimidation; threatening to collapse like the churches that fell to ruin upon the hymn goers. 

Hannibal’s eyes narrow as the irony sourly sets in. His teeth worry the gag Will had forced upon him in a simmering fury, the cloth sticking to his dried out tongue.

_Crrraaash!_

Fine china falls from off an elegant mahogany dining table like splintered bone onto the unpolished wooden floor. 

Small veins bulge out in his forehead, arms, and hands as he lunges forth at Will despite his constraints. 

The younger man steps to the side having predicted the good doctor would try such a move, no matter how futile. A beast, after all, remains a beast no matter its air of domestication. 

He observes the man whose face is now smashed against the floorboards with creases forming around the eyes and mouth out of hostile defeat.

“Rude, Hannibal.” Will glowers, his tone dripping in mirthless mockery as he seductively steps forward. Grabbing the back of the ornate, hand carved chair, he heaves Hannibal up right in one swift gesture. 

“Now,” he purrs, setting the head of his bat on the ground before folding delicate yet capable hands over the base, resting a rugged chin upon them. His gaze smolders, entrancing his current prey. 

“Would you care to discuss time, teacups, and the rules of disorder?” He sneers.

Hannibal’s lips go white and flatten for a flickering instant then curve slyly upwards, traveling to his eyes. 

Gazes lock. Tension comes to rest on the head of a pin. And then it breaks. 

A draft spills from out the chimney across from them, wiping out the waning fire, ash filtering out into the air. 

Both are now cloaked in shadow.

“Suspended on dust,” Will murmurs. 

Hannibal can hear the calculation in the drawn out syllables. He braces himself, broad, skilled hands curling into fists.

Will straightens up, palms seizing the grip of the bat. A blaze of wrath flashes across his face as wood meets bone, and Hannibal topples over with the chair.

He groans, blood trickling down his cheek, caressing the sleek angle of his jaw.

“That’s what we are, you and I,” the younger man continues. “That’s all we’ve been, Hannibal. That’s all we’ve been for three years. Can’t you hear it calling out to you?”

He strides forward, placing a boot clad foot forcefully against the other’s chest. 

“Don’t you feel the hunger,” he prods, bending over him to harshly remove the gag. “Or are you so far up your own ass, shrouded in all of your pretensions, that you’ve fallen complacently dormant?”

“Will,” he hoarsely challenges, voice thick and accented, ashen blonde hair plastered over his forehead. “You’re lacking intimacy. How would you really care to do this?”

Will observes the change in Hannibal’s stare, the man’s eyes having transformed from light amber into a deeper merlot. The air between them turns electric, and he can nearly taste the iron that stirs him to enhanced life. 

The bat twirls once, then twice in the cradle of his hand before tumbling towards the wooden floor like a carelessly abandoned lover. 

He paces before lingering behind his captive. Fingers trail over Hannibal’s scalp, roughly lacing through his hair before traveling lower ever so slowly and settling both hands on his neck.

A low hum creeps from out his mouth as he commits skin and muscle to memory. 

“With my hands,” he leers, voice husky. 

Hannibal shuts his eyes, his face bereft of expression as his throat audibly clicks. 

The other ghosts lips over his ear, teeth grazing, then clamping down savagely.

The good doctor winces before moaning low with unrestrained pleasure. 

“Is this intimate enough for you?” Will hisses into his ear. 

His purchase on the man’s neck strengthens as he wraps his hands fully around it before choking him.

Hannibal’s eyes blow wide open, pupils dilating as he struggles against the pressure brought down upon his trachea. 

Even while oxygen deprived, the cogs of his mind alert him to the now blatant truth that something is not right with his cunning boy. This is far off from the shores of usual. 

Grimacing, he reaches up, violently grasping Will by his dark, unruly curls and yanks his face down over his own. Sharp teeth snare the flesh of Will’s bottom lip, wedging between them as blood produces in glimmering beads and crimson rivulets. 

The man yelps as his mouth cruelly descends into a snarl. He attempts to escape Hannibal’s hold though his captive proves his advantage as their heads knock together, sending Will to the floor in a whirl of heated disorientation. 

The earth stirs beneath them as Hannibal works quickly to undo the rope that binds him. Swallowing whatever flesh and blood remains, he utilizes his teeth to better work out the knots. 

Tremors disrupt the floorboards as dust and remnant ash pollute the air. 

Hands free, the older man moves to unbind his ankles. His ears catch the feral snarl unfurling from the other.

His muscles tense as flight or fight shifts into full gear, coiling a tight spring in the depths of his belly. 

Kicking the chair away, he turns and regards Will, a dark questioning lingering in the edges of his gaze. 

“Intimacy,” Hannibal utters, tone accented. 

Will meets him with brows crawling up into a fringe of brown hair and a carefully placed lopsided grin with his jaw jutting out in the tiniest of increments. 

“Is God frowning down upon me?” He asks in a mocking tone that scrapes between teeth. 

Hannibal’s breathing ceases momentarily, tucking his head away in confusion, his mind racing through various, recent rooms for the missing link that eludes him.

Will, by nature, shies from sexual intimacy, and while he has always been a good fisherman and a craftsman in snide remarks, this situation is being exponentially cast into deeper, unchartered territory. 

_Devil’s Night._

There had been a conversation between them earlier in the week, with Will having been increasingly persistent in the chase for obscure historical details, but at the time, it hadn’t raised any flags of alarm within Hannibal’s head; heightened curiosity, certainly, but little else.

Something pricks harshly within his heart as it sinks heavily as an anchor does when sent to its watery tomb. 

His pulse floods his ears in sounds of low, hollowed drumming. 

He stalks forward in measured steps, then waits, holding his ground as vermilion eyes level with those once reflective of a tumultuous sea.

“I was unaware that your proclivities for what lies on the other side extended past the region of madness of which we inhabit, Will.” 

Will steadily locks with him, tongue clicking against a predatory, broad smile. 

“I inhabit,” he corrects, stepping closer. “You dwell in the confines of domesticity. Dull, monotonous routine. Predictable.”

Hannibal’s mouth quirks at that, his eyes glowing as a single brow rises.

His gaze roams over Will’s frame, noting each tic of what breathes for and conducts him. 

Breathing in steadily through his nose, past the scent of a familiar, atrocious aftershave, something similar to rotten flesh is detected. His eyes shut in acceptance as his body goes rigid with expectancy.

As they reopen, they land on absence.  
“Happy hunting,” a raw, gravelly voice proclaims from afar.  
Another draft surges throughout the cabin as light cuts to shadow.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you've enjoyed reading this! Please leave comments/kudos. It only takes a moment of your time, and means more to writers than you know. Until next time... <3


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